Owls Well That Ends Well(13)

I was tempted to try it on him now, and rescue Giles, but Gordon was already turning away.

“Still, you might want to take a look at what I found on the dollar table over there,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I bet you’ll want it when you see it in the shop.”

He sauntered off, still smirking.

Giles sighed.

“The maddening thing is, I probably will want whatever he’s found,” he said. “The bastard has a damned good idea what’s in my collection.”

“He sold you most of it?” I guessed.

“No, only a few, and those some years ago. As soon as he finds out you’re collecting something, the prices start creeping up. More than creeping, really. Skyrocketing. I usually do better elsewhere. But he stops by my office from time to time. That’s where I keep my detective fiction collection, you see. And the science fiction and fantasy stuff. To annoy the old fuddy-duddies who look down their noses at genre fiction.”

I fought to hide my smile. To look at him, you’d take Giles for a fuddy-duddy himself. I had a hard time imagining that beneath his stodgy tweed beat the heart of a rebel. A pedantic rebel, perhaps, and one who preferred to keep his rebellion subtle enough to avoid offending the administration.

“So while Gordon’s in your office, he sneaks a peek at your shelves.”

Giles snorted.

“Sneaks a peek! I came back from a class one day and found him taking a detailed inventory. Not only which books, but in what condition. So he could be on the lookout for better copies that might tempt me to trade up.”

“At sky-high prices,” I said. This was a longer and more natural conversation than I could ever remember having with Giles. Perhaps I should bone up on this Freeman person. Or was our shared dislike for Gordon the stronger bond?

Giles nodded.

“The only Freemans I’m missing are a few relatively rare ones. I suspect he’s found one of those or perhaps what he thinks is a better copy of one I already have.”

“So he’ll probably be extracting more money from you soon,” I said.

“Not necessarily,” Giles said. “Last fall, I made a resolution not to deal with Gordon anymore. I decided it spoils my enjoyment of the books, just knowing they’ve passed through his hands. Haven’t been in his shop for over a year now.”

“Maybe he hasn’t found anything after all, then,” I said. “Maybe he’s just trying to lure you back into his den of literary temptation.”

“Let’s hope I have the strength of will to resist, then,” Giles said.

“Get thee behind me, Gordon!” I said.

Giles chuckled at my joke, though as usual I couldn’t tell if he found it funny or just wanted to be polite. I wondered, suddenly, if I wasn’t the only one making an effort to become friends. Perhaps, in spite of thinking me entirely too boisterous and independent, Giles was, in his own stuffy way, making heroic efforts to get to know me. Or perhaps I was just overreacting to his normal British reticence. No way to tell.

“Well, I suppose there’s a chance Gordon has overlooked a few books worth owning,” he said. “Be seeing you.”

I was surprised to see him stop briefly at the table where Dad, still in his great horned owl disguise, was selling off Edwina Sprocket’s collection of owl tchotchkes to benefit SPOOR. I hadn’t pegged Giles for a birdwatcher or a collector of ceramic owls. But I had to smile when I saw him pick up a pair of owl-shaped bronze bookends and tuck them in the crook of one arm before heading off toward the books.

Just then, a squabble broke out between Scarlett O’Hara and a middle-aged Gypsy, who’d each grabbed one of a pair of brass andirons, and my day really began going downhill.





Chapter 6

Where were my volunteer helpers, I wondered. Scarlett backed off when I threatened to expel her from the yard sale, but I had to sit on the Gypsy for ten minutes to calm her down. And no one lifted a finger to help me. I had recruited a dozen relatives to help, but apart from my two increasingly demoralized cashiers, none of them were nearby. I hoped they were off taking care of other problems. We had plenty of problems to go around. In addition to squabbles between customers, I was starting to notice squabbles among the sellers, as various people suddenly noticed which priceless treasures their spouses, parents, children, or siblings had decided to unload.

“She’s selling my high chair,” my forty-something cousin Dermot announced, pointing to his sweet, grayhaired mother as if he’d just spotted one of the FBI’s top ten wanted criminals lurking in our backyard.

“If you want it, why don’t you just buy it?” I asked.